


Human

by a_nonny_moose



Series: 100 Quote Prompts [15]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 23:00:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11428056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: Wilford's on a sugar high, and the Egos find their hearts.





	Human

“Just answer this one question and I won’t ever bother you again.” 

“That is the third time you have said that phrase this week, Wilford.” Google_R sighed, turning from his computer to face Wilford, excitedly twiddling his knife. “What is it that you want?”

“Okay Google,” Wilford said, eyes lighting up. “Why do zebras have stripes?”

Google_R sighed, searching quickly. “Zebras have stripes as a form of camouflage and mechanism of cooling. Their black stripes are warmer than their white stripes, which creates a current of air across their hides.” He paused, and Wilford wiggled in happiness. “Is that all, Wilford?”

“Yes!” Wilford ran back out of the Googles’ office, presumably to bother someone else. Google_R shook his head, turning back to his computer. 

“Do I detect fondness?” Google_G turned away from the computer he was building, parts strewn across the floor of their room. 

Without moving, Google_R snorted. “Shut up, Green.”

“You seem to grow more human every day, Red.”

“So do you, asshole.”

Google_B took off his headphones to yell at them. “Would you two be quiet? Unlike you, we are trying to work.” Oliver smirked at them from his desk, arm strapped to the table, before turning back, flipping his welding mask back down, and continuing to make upgrades. 

Google_R turned to smirk at Google_G before snapping his own headphones back on, going back to coding. 

 

Wilford ran down the hall to Dr. Iplier’s office, trailing pink bubbles in his wake in joy. He popped into the clinic without even knocking, practically singing. “Ooooh, Doctor?”

Dr. Iplier jumped a little at the entrance, halfway through inspecting the inside of his patient’s mouth. The older lady, lying with her mouth open, flinched as the Doctor jabbed her gums. 

Dr. Iplier, apologizing hastily, rose to meet Wilford. 

“Will, what on earth are you doing here? I’m busy,” he said, trying to block Wilford from the woman’s view. 

“Who’s that?” Wilford said, trying to peek around the Doctor’s shoulder. 

Dr. Iplier grabbed Wilford’s bow tie to pull his ear down to his level. “She didn’t have health insurance and I invited her over for a check up. She doesn’t know about any of you, and I suggest we keep it that way.” He hissed the words, glancing behind him at the confused lady, rubbing her jaw. 

He thought about the implications of someone else seeing two versions of the same man, standing and angrily talking to each other, and resolved to get Wilford out of the clinic even faster. “I’ll talk to you later. Go.”

Forcibly, he turned Wilford around and gave him a shove towards the door. 

“Gee, Doc,” Wilford said, turning to wiggle his mustache at him, “you get nicer every day!” 

The door slammed shut, and Dr. Iplier was left to calm his patient down, explaining his “crazy twin, really, I don’t know where he gets those suspenders from!”

 

Wilford stopped by the Host’s room next, bursting with news. “Hey, Hosty!”

“The Host did not wish to be disturbed, Wilford.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wilford said, dropping into a chair by the Host’s desk. “But guess what?”

“The Host would like to remind you that he has been given the gift of narration, and with this comes considerable insight into what you are about to say.”

“Okay, so I just stopped by the Googles’ room, and Red told me that zebras–”

“– havestripesasaformofcamouflageandmechanismofcooling,” the Host said, quickly, sighing. 

Wilford pouted a little, rising. “You’re no fun, Host.” He turned to leave, almost tripping over a stack of books on the floor.

“The Host–” he hesitated, but Wilford stopped walking anyway.

“Yeah?”

“The Host is curious,” he said, sounding a little resigned, “as to how the zebra’s stripes act as a cooling mechanism.”

Wilford sat back down, nearly sparkling with excitement, and the Host feigned interest as Wilford began to ramble about air currents. At one point, Wilford seized a pen and paper, draw a diagram on it, and held it out to the Host.

“..and see,” he said, pointing, “the hot air rises, which creates a vacuum–”

The Host chuckled a little, despite himself, and he could tell Wilford’s face had fallen. “The Host appreciates Wilford’s use of a visual, but–”

“No, wait! I’ll fix it!” The Host heard Wilford rifling about on his desk, and inwardly cringed at the sound of him rearranging the carefully placed papers, upturning an ink pot. “…oops.” There was the sound of careful scribbling, and then–

“Okay, I got it!”

Wilford took hold of the Host’s hand, and the Host jumped a little, forcing himself to not pull away. Wilford carefully pressed the Host’s fingers to his papers, tracing over the swirls he’d pressed into the paper, leaving impressions that the Host could feel. 

He launched back into his explanation, and the Host allowed himself a gentle smile. 

“…and so, it acts like air conditioning!” Wilford finally finished, beaming. 

The Host shook his head a little. “Compelling, Wilford. Have you–”

“I’d love to stay and chat, Host, but Bim and I have a lot of work to do today!” He stood and bowed, exaggerated, before rushing out. 

The Host, alone again, sighed a little before returning to his work. He’d lived here for a while and had to admit, Wilford was growing on him. He had passion, would do anything to succeed, and wasn’t afraid to let heads roll. He reminded the Host of the Author, in a way. Of a more human time. 

He heard a collision in the hallway outside, and stepped tentatively towards the door, listening closely. 

 

On the way down the hallway, Wilford ran at full speed into Dark. “Oops. Heya, Darky!” Wilford leaned in as if to hug him, but Dark, sneering, pushed him away.

“Do watch where you’re going, Will.”

“Hey, Dark,” Wilford said, completely ignoring him. “D’you want to hear a zebra fact?”

“I absolutely do n–”

“Great!” Wilford slung an arm around Dark’s neck before he could protest, steering them both down the hallway, in no particular direction. “So, zebras are black and white, right? Much like someone I know,” he said, jabbing Dark in the ribs. 

Dark recoiled, brow furrowing. “What is wrong with you today?”

“Today?! Darkipoo, Something’s always wrong with me.” Wilford finally released him to do a little victory dance. He stopped, staring at Dark. “I’m bored. Unlike you, I don’t go on unnecessary murder sprees–” he ignored Dark’s snort, “–and do something useful with my time.”

“Like boring unnecessary murderers with zebra facts?”

“Exactly!” Wilford jabbed a finger at Dark, refusing to let his good mood be spoiled, even by Dark’s ringing aura. 

Dark allowed himself to crack a smile, mentally filing away notes on Wilford’s behavior. Later, he’d find the kitchen devoid of Wilford’s usual stockpile of sugary snacks, and hang his head in chagrin. 

Wilford danced away down the hall, pink bubbles once again trailing in his wake. Dark swatted one of them away, more amused than annoyed. 

Behind him, the Host poked his head fully out of his room. “It would appear that the infamous Darkiplier is developing human emotions. Who would have predicted such a thing from a creature of the shadows, especially towards the building’s resident sugar junkie?”

Dark turned, snarling, but the Host ducked back inside, slamming the door with a satisfied smirk. It wasn’t often he got to tease Dark, but when he did, he could almost feel like himself again. With a quiet laugh, the Host picked his way back to his desk, burying himself again in work.

 

Outside, Dark scowled at the closed door, but continued down the hall towards the kitchen. Physical existence was a pain at the best of times, but considering the Host’s words as truth– he frowned to himself, musing. Emotions, connecting with the Egos around him, had never been a consideration. But now, as an evil idea that had been given a soul and nerve and heart, his two-dimensional plans were struggling in a three-dimensional word.

Human. He turned the word over in his mind for another moment, tasting it in his throat. Mark was human, and the Egos faint echoes of that humanity. 

Human. To Dark, it meant weaknesses, hatred and betrayal. 

Human. It meant learning to live, and wasn’t that what he was doing anyway?

 

Wilford finally burst into the recording studio, several bubbles floating lazily in after him. Bim jumped up from their editing computer, clicking hastily. 

“Hey, Will, I have some ideas–”

“Do any of them involve zebras?”

“I– wait, what?”

“That sounds like a no!” Wilford sang, rushing past Bim into the recording booth.

“Wilford, we–”

“I’m inspired, Bim!” Wilford slammed the door, and a second later, the “Recording” sign outside lit up, warning Bim not to enter. 

Bim sighed, leaving Wilford to his own devices. He trudged back over to the editing computer, eyes burning with the strain of putting together Wilford’s latest ambitious monster of a video. He clicked and dragged, clicked and dragged, and slowly, his eyes began to close. The Doctor’s words echoed between his ears: Don’t overwork yourself. You’re only human. Bim shook it off, clicking to the next scene of the video.

 

The office was dark by the time he woke up, face pressed into the computer’s keyboard, hand still resting over the mouse. Blinking blearily, he looked around. The only light came from his computer screen, boasting an unfinished video, and from the still-lit recording booth. 

Stretching himself awake, Bim stood and walked over to see if Wilford was really still recording. It was possible, after all– he’d worked 18-hour days often, and without mercy.

Bim peeked into the window of the booth, fully expecting Wilford to wave him away. Instead, he looked down to see the floor of the booth covered in wisps of cotton candy, Wilford passed out under the still-recording microphone. 

Bim put on the headphones to hear Wilford, leaning into the mic, and was immediately assaulted by the sound of snoring. “Wilford,” he called, hesitant to wake him up. Wilford’s nose twitched, but he immediately went back to his slumber. 

Bim laughed a little, taking off the headphones and turning off the mic. He checked the recorded material to find four hours of audio, the first thirty minutes filled with chatter, and the rest, after a significant thump, was snoring of a similar caliber. 

He shuffled away from the studio, turning off the computer as he left. 

 

When Bim finally flopped into bed, he did so with a satisfied sigh. It had been a long week, but a productive one. He’d been alive for quite a few years, but never felt as alive as he had been after they’d produced Markiplier TV. With the renewal of his existence came a new dimension of life. Suddenly, Matthias wasn’t the only fixation he had, and game shows weren’t the only thing he remembered. 

Dr. Iplier had referred to this feeling as becoming corporeal: less of an idea, more of a person. Bim, snuggling into his pillows, assured of waking up the next morning, thought that there was nothing better than this– even if he was underfoot in Wilford’s studio half the time.

Yeah, he thought. Being human wasn’t all that bad.


End file.
